


yokan (予感)

by vash (hanamichi)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Harry Potter, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanamichi/pseuds/vash
Summary: On Tom's final year at Hogwarts there's a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. He's a sweet-faced, soft young omega. He's also a conniving bastard who seems to know everything about Tom, including his list of past misdeeds.Tom's feelings are, understandably, very conflicted.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 42
Kudos: 393





	yokan (予感)

**Author's Note:**

> \- There's a bit of Tom/Abraxas but Tom's focus is, as always, Harry.
> 
> \- Not underage. This is not exactly slow burn but nothing sexual happens before Tom turns 18/leaves Hogwarts. However, Tom does start to develop Feelings™ for Harry when they're still student and teacher, so if that bothers you please don't read this fic! 
> 
> \- additional tags not added (yet) because those would be spoilers. Specific chapter trigger warnings will be added before each chapter though. 
> 
> \- animal cruelty tw for this chapter. Nothing explicit, but some mice die. 
> 
> \- *Dean Pelton's voice:* Time travel is really hard to write about!

**Part I:**

**1944**

  
  


変えれない 帰れずに 無口な愛

静かに 静かに 絡めあう二人…

  
  


Childhood is over now that he’s killed his first, though it might never have been in the first place. Born a stillborn birth. Nothing in that orphanage could be considered a childhood, but he’s found in himself some innocence still, in his latest years to be in awe everytime the school year began and he was back home to Hogwarts. He’d still look upwards to the ceiling, like a tourist at the Sistine Chapel, dreaming of the day he’d be able to emulate the spell that made up that sky. He’d still savour every bite of the welcoming banquet after months of rationing, of watery soup and stale bread.

Now he’s here and he’s happy to be back, but he’s also impatient and eager to be rid of his father’s name and be cloaked forever in his own. He wants the last of his baby fat to melt away and reach the last inches of his growth and part ways for good with adolescence. Mostly, he wants to be free to be as powerful as he can be. That’s the sweeter song. To undo the lingering weakness and be needless of a heart. He wants not to feel the sharp edge of his shattered soul against his rib like a phantom pain of a limb he’s lost from the inside.

“Thank Merlin Dumbledore’s stepping down,” comes the silk of Abraxas’ voice next to him. He bends towards Tom, as a flower to the sun, as much as he can get away with. Trying perhaps to catch a whiff of his scent. “I couldn’t stand him another year.”

“That new teacher doesn’t look like much though,” Orion Black says, before slicing the meat on his plate and taking a bite.

“What sort of name is _Evans_ , anyway? Probably a half-blood.” Lestrange sentences it casually and then pales at his own gaffe, turns to Tom. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, Tom.”

Tom blinks, the words only reaching him now. The group is silent around him waiting for his mercy or otherwise. But he’s been savouring the pain of his torn soul as if running his tongue over a canker sore or the hollow of a decayed tooth and everything else seems unimportant now.

“What?”

“You’re so distracted tonight,” Abraxas intercedes, happy to translate Tom to the rest of them. “We were talking about the new DADA teacher.”

He looks at the faculty table and searches until he finds the stranger. He’s dark-haired, lean, small and looks almost young enough to be sitting by their side. From so far away he can’t catch his face – he’s bent, deep in conversation with Dumbledore (now assistant to the Headmaster) and doesn’t turn to him, not even once. Tom loses interest.

“Oh, him.” he takes a sip of the pumpkin juice. “Yes, doesn’t look like much.”

Like any other teenager on the cusp of majority Tom has greatness set to him. Unlike his peers, however, his greatness is a certainty. His name will outshine all those that came before him. All those that will come after.

Still, the wound is bleeding what bleeds a soul. He wonders what colour is it. Silver, gold, red? Or the cliché he can’t let go of entirely – does his soul bleed black?

After he gathers the frock of first-years and patiently explains to them the rules of his house with his well-rehearsed charm, he goes down to the dormitory, loosening his tie. He’s tired – he’s been tired all summer, that’s making a horcrux for you - but he’ll still go out tonight to finish what he’s started the year before.

“I missed you,” Abraxas says, kneeling down next to him, pretending he’s also rummaging through his trunk. “I wish you’d had accepted my invitation.”

“As if your family would approve,” Tom snarls, a little more impatiently than he intended.

Abraxas blushes next to him and pulls away from his face a curl of hair so blond and so perfect it looks painted. He’s got half the Alphas of their year panting after him (the other half is swooning over Agatha, with her dark skin, her Gryffindor boldness and her long dreadlocks), but it’s to Tom he comes to wiggle his tail.

“I don’t care about what they would think,” he says and it’s unfortunately earnest. Tom’s still learning to use that. He’s worked with admiration and desire and ambition these last six years but what Abraxas has for him burns his hands when he tries to touch. “Can we meet tonight?” Abraxas asks.

“Not tonight,” Tom says curtly. He reaches out and pins that stray curl behind Abraxas’ ear. “I’m busy. I have to practice. Be a good boy for me, will you?” he adds, in a fit of inspiration. Abraxas’ blush deepens, his eyes wide with the gift Tom’s given him so casually, and he nods. Oh, so it’s easy like that?

When he gets up, he’s taking his diary with him. No one else could tell, no one else would say, but he feels it, as a heart away from his body. It’s warm when he keeps it against his chest. Those first days after the mutilation he’d flip the pages, checking for blood.

  
  


He loves Hogwarts the most at night, when it could be his only. He’s fantasised about it, coming from rooms he’s always shared with someone else, to have the castle to himself. But maybe that would be too eerie, even for him.

Walking the corridors and shielded by his Head Boy badge, he usually bumps into other people. Professors, ghosts, students breaking the rules – and no one question his intentions or ask where he’s going.

Except for Dumbledore.

He’s heading for the room of requirement and halfway there he stops. There’s someone he’s never met before on his nightwalks. It’s the new teacher and Tom takes him for a student at first – he’s opening his mouth to rain some generic punishment when Evans turns to him. There’s a window across from him and the stairs beneath and walls filled with portraits. There’s the moonlight reaching his face and Tom can see the professor is crying.

He looks so young like this, twenty at most, startled, rubbing at his tears with the back of his hands.

“Are you—” Tom hesitates. He’s never seen a teacher cry before. What persona should he wear for this occasion? “Are you alright? Professor?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” He waves a hand as if to disperse the remaining of emotion. “Just nostalgic, I guess.”

Tom goes to him and takes out a handkerchief out of his pocket, offers it to Evans. He’s seen people do it but never got the chance, never wanted the chance either, never been good at giving comfort and was never too keen to learn. But it’s smooth, and he feels a little like the gentleman Abraxas has been training him to be.

“Thank you.” Evans says, drying his tears. Tom’s at least three inches taller than him, broader. They’re close so Tom can see his pretty face, his frail wrists. Where did they ship this delicate creature from, to teach them defence against the dark arts? Evans gives back the handkerchief and smiles. “Tom Riddle, right?”

“Yes. Should I—will you be alright?” He goes for empathetic, concerned. He forces a furrow between his brows.

“I will. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I’ll patrol the corridors a while longer and then I’ll go, sir,” Tom lies.

Evans hums, looks away from him. A dream sets on his expression as he gazes over those old stones.

“Always loved it here. My favourite place in the world.”

“Mine too,” Tom reveals, and now the furrow on his brow is real. Not often his words come out without his leave.

“I was like you,” Evans carries on. “Walking the castle at night. I got up to all sorts of trouble. Wasn’t a Head Boy though. I misbehaved.”

“A rule-breaker than, sir?”

“Quite.”

They settle on silence for a moment and Evans doesn’t know that Tom takes note of what he says and would use it against him one day if needed. It’s a habit ingrained, even though he probably already outgrew whatever this sweet-faced teacher could offer him. He’s already got the entire teaching staff eating out of the palm of his hand. At this point Hogwarts to him is shelter, lodging, a most loved bureaucracy.

“I should go, sir.”

Evans hums again. When Tom’s turning to leave, however, he calls out his name:

“Tom?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t do anything bad.”

Evans’s got a cat-like hue on his expression now, a tilt of amusement to his lips. Tom feels something disagreeable in him that freezes his smile for a second. But it’s nothing; it’s over in a beat.

“Of course not, sir.”

Later, in the Room of Lost Things, he takes out the used handkerchief before his wand. It’s a square of expensive linen and his initials are traced in golden thread. A gift from Orion on his sixteenth birthday. He brings it up to his nose and like he thought, beneath the salt and water and Tom’s own smell, there’s the honeyed scent of an unmated omega. His mouth waters a bit. Without his noticing, the pain under his ribs has softened.

  
  


  
  


When he wakes it’s to the sun of seven-thirty and the floor of the Room of Requirement. A pile of rats in a corner, some dead, some still twitching.

_Gross,_ he thinks, in the muddle of sleepiness. The handkerchief is tightly gathered in one hand, his wand on the other. On a page of his open diary a scribble: _less nosebleeds this time. Imperius ok._

Not like him to be, late but his body is stiff and he’s still tired, magic drained from him and blood dry on his philtrum, on his lips, and he has half a mind to go back to sleep. He rises though, too disciplined to really consider it, and makes his way as quickly as he can to the dormitories. He’ll shower and make himself presentable and if he misses breakfast and is a little late to History of Magic it’s no matter, he’ll be forgiven. There has been so little to forgive from him, these last seven years. That the teachers know of, that is.

  
  


  
  


“The Bolsheviks got to Bulgaria,” Roman Lestrange announces at lunch, reaching for a plate of potatoes. “That what’s-his-name German muggle is done for.”

“Austrian,” Orion Black corrects quietly, his fork paused over his plate.

“What?”

“He’s Austrian, not German,” Orion explains, his dark eyes mocking, a lazy disdain on his handsome face. “Hitler, I mean. You’re so ignorant, Roman.”

“No one cares what country some stupid muggle is from,” Lestrange says defensively.

“Does it affect Grindelwald?” Abraxas asks, sitting next to Tom. Orion is still chewing so he just shrugs.

“It doesn’t really matter,” comes Tom’s verdict. “He’s old news. Besides, even though he’s got some interesting ideas he’s still German. Our loyalty must be to England, I told you this already. He can disappear for all I care.”

They let the silence stretch enough to give their leader’s words the weight it deserves until the talk start again. A few moments later Meera arrives, putting down her books and filling a glass with pumpkin juice. She’s a sixth year, exceptionally bright and powerful.

“You had DADA today, right?” Tom asks her. “What’s the new teacher like?”

“Oh, he’s good,” she answers. “For a Gryffindor, at least.”

“How do you know he’s a Gryffindor?” Roman asks.

“With some people you can just tell.” She turns to Tom. “He’s teaching us how to duel. I think he’s seen some action.” She pauses, and adds, rather cheeky: “He’s very pretty too. Too bad he’s mated. But an omega like him, of course he’d be taken.”

“He’s _not_ mated _._ ” Tom says harshly. Meera’s brown eyes widen and she deflates a little.

“I’m quite sure he is,” she tells him carefully. “he came near me today, corrected the way I was holding my wand. I could smell it on him.”

  
  


  
  


It rains, that first week. There’s a murmur of how capable the new teacher is, despite his youth, despite his beauty. The fact that he’s an Omega follows every mention of his name. He’s a rarity in the world and in his field – the only other professor who shares his second gender is Dumbledore.

There are colourful rumours too, and in a week with little news from the war front they breed fast: that Evans fought against Grindelwald’s followers. That he was sent as a spy by the muggle Prime Minister to seduce Grindelwald and barely escaped with his life. That his lover is a member of the French Resistance, that _he_ is a member of the French Resistance. That his lover is, in fact, a Bolshevik and Evans is a Bolshevik too, in that case. That he has a scar, lightning-shaped, on his forehead. That one is true, but the speculations of its origins become more and more outlandish as the week passes: a dragon, an enchanted knife, a spell casted by one of Grindelwald’s followers, a spell casted by Grindelwald himself when he found himself betrayed by his young lover – that’s the version preferred by the girls on the fourth, fifth and sixth years.

Tom doesn’t spare him much thought. Each night dead rats pile on the room of lost things, and then vanish when he leaves. He promised to teach his closest followers how to murder but first he must learn it himself. Killing done by his own hand, not by proxy through a basilisk. It’s harder than he thought and though he’s as diligent as ever in his duties as head boy and his homework, he’s been paler than ever these days, he’s been wiping blood from his nose, feeling it in his throat. The _Avada_ is the most demanding mistress of all spells he’s learned and the book describing it said mastering it is not a feat most Wizards manage in a lifetime. But do they count, these words written before he was born? He’s determined not only to tame the three unforgivables but also to teach them to those loyal to him.

  
  


  
  


Friday, the sky clears. Of all dozen rodents Tom cursed that evening, none survived.

  
  


  
  


Evan’s class is the last one of the day. A large classroom, bigger still because all the desks and chairs are pushed against one of the walls. Even Tom thrills, sharing the same excitement as his classmates at the prospect of practical lessons so early.

So the rumours are true; Evan is unorthodox, fresh, a rebel. Rows of students fill the space, the Gryffindor-red and Slytherin-green of their ties stark against the sand-coloured stone of the room. The grudge forgotten, half out of anticipation, half out of a poise the seventeen-year-olds learned to assume: they’re too old now, almost adults really, to care about the silly rivalry between houses. Tom’s surrounded by his followers, Abraxas’ snuggled against him as close as discretion allows it, but even so Agatha approaches him to stand by his side. She smiles at him and Tom smiles back, giving the Gryffindors and Slytherins in the room something to gossip about.

Evans is not looking at them. He’s propped against his teacher’s desk, his body turned towards the window. Like that first night, he’s elsewhere. No tears this time even though, as Evans looks across the glass window, Tom can see some emotion rearing in his chest, in its rise and fall. He’s smaller under daylight, even frail.

_Where did they ship this creature from?_ Plucked unripe from some winter garden. But when he turns and faces them he’s again the cat with nine lives of experience and they’re all canaries. All but Tom, who doesn’t need to show off, but knows all teachers end up looking at him and only at him after some time. Evans will be no different.

Evans gazes at them for a while until the murmur dims and fades. He’s smiles, very slightly, and then speaks.

“My favourite spell in a duel is the _Expelliarmus._ ” He takes out his wand – small and delicate like he is – and examines it as if he’s seeing for the first time. “It’s become a trademark of mine. So much that my enemies could identify me by it.” He looks back at his students. “But I really like this spell. It does what defence is supposed to do – disarm the other person. It can be a little harsh, yes, but not fatal. Its purpose is not to kill, not to maim. It just makes sure that the other person cannot hurt me, or someone else… with their wand, that is.”

He walks around and to Tom it seems like he’s half-talking to himself, uncovering his speech as it leaves his mouth.

“You know, the reason why we have _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ it’s because most dark magic was created with the single goal of hurting. Take its most famous ones, the unforgivables. _Imperio,_ which controls people against their will. _Cruciatus,_ the most effective physical torture created by Wizards. And Avada Kedavra – the most lethal spell we know of.”

At that, Agatha’s elegant arm raises. Just below Tom and sometimes surpassing him, she’s the school’s gem, loved by teachers and students alike, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and collector of top marks.

“Yes, Miss…?”

“Monroe, sir. Excuse me but the Ministry authorised the use of unforgivables by wizards on the front. It’s all fine and dandy to be chivalrous in the classroom duels but we can’t win actual fights against dark wizards by only using the expelliarmus, can we?”

Tom likes her, as much as he can like anyone without secondary implications, and often he considers courting her. She’s a pure-blood, beautiful, powerful and rich, and though they maintain a polite rivalry as the two best students in Hogwarts she’s thrown his way her share of smiles, of invitations to study alone. But the toil of it, when she’s so headstrong, so openly contrarian to what he’s building. Why bother with that when he’s got Abraxas and all his mellow, useful tameness?

Evans is smiling. He examines her for a moment with a fond expression.

“You’re right. We can’t expect courtesy from wizards who are willing to use dark spells to maim us, torture us, kill us even. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be ready to defend yourself by any means necessary. But,” he hesitates and his gaze shifts for a second to Tom. A second only, before he’s addressing the whole class and then Agatha. “It’s important to have thresholds we won’t cross. Maybe using the unforgivables brings faster results than other spells but the price is too high. What if an innocent is hurt? What happens to our own humanity when we channel the emotions for these spells to work? What happens to us when we want to torture and kill someone bad enough that we act on it? Do you think we should find out?”

The room is silent. _Fool,_ Tom judges wordlessly, _the same kind as Dumbledore._

“I will teach you what I know, based on my experiences – how to fight using light spells.”

“So it’s true then, you fought Grindelwald?” Orion asks, not bothering to raise his hand.

Evans’ mouth opens as he looks at the boy and the answer comes a beat too late.

“Well—not directly—”

“Did you fight his followers?” A girl from Gryffindor prompts.

“You could say that,” Evans answers, looking awkwardly at his pupils, scratching his head. But before they can question him further he tells them: “Let’s carry on. Find a partner; I want to see how well you’re duelling.”

Abraxas is reaching for him but Agatha is faster, holding his wrist and pulling him away from his group. Tom follows, unbothered. No one here is a true challenge, most likely not even the young thing teaching them, but he knows by heart already all the spells his knights can use against him, and Agatha is a welcomed variation. It’s not the first time they’ve danced, but a lion is always a fun, predictable thing to poke.

“I’m hoping you won’t play the gentleman this time, Riddle,” she teases. “I could tell you were holding back the last time we did this.”

“Wouldn’t want to further ruin the already poor impression you probably have of me, Monroe.” He smiles at her, bright and blameless.

“If my impression of you is poor already then you have nothing to lose, right?”

She bows, he does the same.

Orion was the goal keeper for the Slytherin team until his fifth year, when he quit because his family wanted him to focus on his exams. He described to Tom a few times, trying to convince him to join the team, the easiness of it, the way his body moved in the air to stop the quaffle, buoyant and weightless and more himself than he ever was on the ground. That is duelling to Tom, to whom magic could never lose the quality of a miracle. To move like water, to be water itself, the element of his house.

Agatha’s efforts are valiant but insufficient, still it was a dance worth dancing. He blocks her attacking spells, and does play the gentleman despite her protests. Letting her drive him to the wall before countering.

At first, they use acceptable spells – _Impedimenta_ is a favourite of Agatha and Tom blocks it effortlessly with _protego_. When he starts attacking, however, the other pairs stop their own matches to watch – even in a game like this he shows off enough to keep them entertained. When Agatha flawlessly hones a pile of parchments into arrows, which she darts against Tom with _Oppugno,_ he conjures a shield of flames, hears the gasps and exclamations of his classmates.

She’s impressed too and watches her creation burn and darken against Tom’s shield. He uses her distraction and vanishes from his spot, reappearing behind her.

“ _Incarcerous,”_ he says, and holds the end of the rope that ties her.

She’s annoyed, but smiling. The dreads of her hair are falling over her face and she’s panting. When she points down her wand the Slytherins begin clapping, cheering for Tom.

“What was that shield?” Agatha asks.

“I haven’t named it.”

“You created it?” She sounds impressed, as she should. But he’s learned how to emulate humbleness ever since that first talk to Dumbledore; he looks away, doesn’t go as far as blushing but he’s all tender and embarrassed as if he doesn’t know, not truly, how powerful he is.

“It’s not perfect yet,” he explains. “But I can teach you one day, if you like.”

She would like that, she tells him. Her scent is cinnamon, he’s never noticed it. But they’re close now and he supposes he’s been noticing this sort of thing nowadays. With no need of his wand, he turns to ashes the thread binding her.

“I’ll win the next one,” she promises.

A nod of his head, good-naturedly. He turns to Evans still wearing the best of his smiles. He’s been fed so long the feast of approval by his teachers that he expects Evans to be alight with him, with the privilege that is teaching him. Anything else would feel like starvation. But Evans’ expression is serious and he’s holding his fingers close to the tightened frame of his mouth. He’s examining Tom with feline sharpness and doesn’t seem to like what he’s found.

It dissipates when their eyes meet. There’s the hint of what he’s shown Tom that night in the corridor, but only a hint.

“Alright.” Evans announces. “Change pairs.”

  
  


As the class progresses, Evans moves around correcting their mistakes, demonstrating spells, praising small successes. When he comes near Tom it’s to speak to his duelling partner (Orion), he doesn’t linger.

_Fuck it,_ Tom thinks. He doesn’t need to impress him.

Some five minutes before the class ends Evans halts all duellists and instructs them to form a semi-circle.

“You are all very impressive witches and wizards,” he says. “All very advanced for your age. But you’re also very stiff and some of you seem more worried with showing off to your schoolmates than winning a duel as quickly and painlessly as possible.” He doesn’t sound cross, only amused and his eyes don’t stray to Tom. “Try to remember that you’re fighting with your whole body, not just your wand. What would happen if you lost it?”

“Are you suggesting we brawl like muggles, professor?” Lestrange says, and some laughs scatter among the students.

“Being fast, having good reflexes and knowing how to throw a punch won’t hurt you in a bind, Mister Lestrange, I know that from personal experience,” he answers, unbothered. “But we’ll talk more about that on your next classes. That’s all for today.”

A girl from Gryffindor raises her hand. “No homework?”

“Not this week.”

They gather their things, half of them in love with the new teacher already. How irresistible he is with his practical lessons, his no-homework policy on a week they’ve been assigned enough reading to last the weekend.

“Mister Riddle, I need to talk to you for a moment.”

Tom is about to cross the threshold when Evans calls him. Abraxas hesitates. Tom looks at Evans – is he going to thank him again for that night in the corridor? Maybe beg his discretion? – and then back at Malfoy.

“You don’t have to wait for me. I’ll meet you for dinner.”

Abraxas goes.

“Close the door, please,” Evans orders softly. Tom does.

All week he’s been dealing with the fluttering of pain of his mangled soul. Perhaps it’s Evans’ scent, but now the ache lessens, even more than it has during the class. He’s heard of it, but with most things pertaining omegas, it’s half biology, half erotised mythology, that their scents are soothing. And no scent could be a salve, a haemostasis to whatever it is which bleeds his soul.

And yet, begrudgingly, he’s soothed.

Evans examines him for a while. Tom knows he’s handsome, is that what he’s taking in? He wouldn’t be the first. But Evans seems to be holding a deeper sigh in his chest. Almost as if he’s gathering strength.

“So,” he begins, still smiling, “did you do anything bad that night?”

_No_ _,_ is Tom’s surprised answer. “No, professor.”

Evans laughs a little.

“Liar.” His face turns, just a moment – and the light hits the weariness of his face. There’s the speculated-veteran, the world-tired soldier. He finally looks his age. And what age is that? Tom realises he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know his first name.

And why the fuck is he being called a liar?

“ _Tom,_ ” Evans looks at him again and speaks with the language of his kind, the language no other human mouth has even spoken to him. _“I know it was you who opened the Chamber of Secrets. I know about the Basilisk. I know you caused the death of_ _Myrtle Warren_ _two years ago. I know you framed Hagrid for it. I know you’re the Heir of Slytherin and that’s not your only alias. I know all of it, Voldemort.”_

Tom missed a beat with the lie, but it came out smooth; the shock was real enough.

“What—I don’t understand— what are you saying?” Even as he speaks his face feels frozen and pale. Trying to pin down that impossibility. He is trapped. He is fascinated. “What are you saying?”

“Please,” Evans sounds impatient. “Stop pretending. You don’t have to, with me. _I know everything._ ”

Without noticing, he has narrowed the distance between them. How green Evans’s eyes are, this close. Beneath his hair, carelessly hidden, a scar. Old enough to be the colour of the same flesh of Evan’s forehead, lightening-shaped. Some god has sealed a claim on him perhaps. Could be a devil, too.

Looking at him Tom recalls that first day when magic was real and not a symptom of madness, when Dumbledore had come to see him in the Orphanage. It was the first time he was not the smartest person in the room as well. Evans’ eyes are clear, calm. The line of his lips is firm. Tom unreins the girdle of his words. Almost a sigh of relief now, like a woman losing her corset. The dark thing that flourishes in him must show on his face because Evans’ mouth twitches. Perhaps it’s the reddening of his eyes he sees, which happens as Tom knows by now, when he feels too much. Strangely, Evans’ expression opens up, as if he was expecting that change, waiting to greet it like an old friend.

“Did Dumbledore put you up to this?” Tom asks.

“No.” Evans’ voice is very agreeable. “He doesn’t know. Not everything, I mean. Not like I do.”

Tom walks forward as Evans backs away until his back hits a wall.

“I’d ask you how you know so much,” Tom says. “But I think I’ll look myself.”

Once forgotten, this indiscretion won’t matter, so Tom tilts up the delicate chin of his professor with his thumb and his index and of all the things he’ll do this is least violating. Evan’s gaze is unguarded and when Tom mutters the spell he expects to stroll in Evans’ mind with the ease of a conqueror entering a city whose banners fly white. He’s welcomed, instead, by a closed door. When he tries to open it his head snaps back, his own mind pained, his nose bleeding.

“Are you done?” Evans pulls his hand and pushes his student away gently. “Not a great technique you’ve got there. I could feel you, here.” He touches his own forehead. “You need to learn subtlety, Tom.”

Tom looks at him, wiping the blood with the back of his hand. His legilimency is rudimentary, yes, but that never happened before. From all minds he invaded there was always something to be mined. He was never halted so thoroughly at any gate he endeavoured to cross.

Fine. He won’t discover how Evans knows all he knows, but he’ll erase the information anyway. Obliviate is a spell he’s great at. He can’t kill the omega. A muggleborn brat murdered by one of Hogwarts myths is one thing, a DADA teacher in a classroom is another one entirely. In any case, he doesn’t think he could use the _Avada._ He’s not confident he’d be able to kill a human with it.

Tom raises his wand, and starts at the _o_ of the spell, but Evans is ready for it and shouts, pointing his wand somewhere behind Tom:

“ _Accio desk!”_

The desk hits Tom on the back of his thighs and he falls forward with surprise, almost dropping his wand. He shouts his own spell, an _Impedimenta_ that Evans easily deflects. As the professor opens his mouth to counter-attack, Tom throws his own version of _Oppugno_ , getting up. His paper-arrows are faster, sharper than Agatha’s. He only seeks to maim, to bleed his professor enough so he’ll stagger, so he’ll fall and be defenceless. But Evans wasn’t lying about his reflexes: he evades most of Tom’s arrows and the ones he doesn’t he explodes with his wand. Only one hits him. It cuts his shirt and reveals a pale shoulder. The fabric falls like the strap of a dress, opening to Tom the extent of his collarbone, a glance of his chest. It’s almost a _Diffindo_ Tom casts next, to see the whole thing ripping and bare, with little strategic value, what’s still hidden. He should be above these distractions but he isn’t. He’s still seventeen.

Evans makes the most of his stillness – the _Impedimenta_ he shouts is a punch against Tom’s chest and he falls down, angrier now, gripping his wand tight and summoning the word he’s been using against mice this whole week:

“ _Cruci—”_

“ _Expelliamurs!”_

Once more the breath punched out of him and his wand flying from his hand. So this is the spell used to subdue other dark wizards. This is his trademark. Tom tastes blood, he’s bitten his tongue. But there’s an arsenal of spells he can do wandless. He’s not defeated and he’s about to show it when the door opens and a familiar and hated face looks at them.

“Professor Dumbledore!” Evans exclaims.

“Professor Evans,” Dumbledore is looking at Tom. “I’ve heard noises. Is everything alright?”

Tom watches Dumbledore as he catalogues the scene: the blood, the mess, Tom’s wand a few paces away from his hand. And each offense could be a triumph if Evans confirms the other omega’s age-old suspicions.

That’s what they get instead:

“Yes, quite alright.” Evans offers cheerfully. He walks to where Tom is still fallen and extends to him his hand. “Today’s class was duelling. Riddle is very diligent so we were practicing a bit more, weren’t we?” Evans is smiling, looking down at him. Tom hesitates for a moment and then takes his hand.

“Yes.” He stands and faces Dumbledore. “Got a little carried away, sir.”

“Exactly.”

Dumbledore doesn’t seem convinced but he capitulates under Evans’ smile.

“Right then,” he says. “I’ll see you at supper, Harry.”

After Dumbledore leaves, Evans let a sigh of relief. His body sags a little and his hands find a desk against which they keep him upright. He’s bleeding from the cut on his shoulder and he pulls the torn fabric up, uselessly.

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” Tom asks.

“If I did Dumbledore would probably arrange to send you to Azkaban.”

“And you don’t think he should?”

“Azkaban might be what you deserve, Tom, but it’s not what you need.”

“And what do I need, professor?”

Evans turns to him and they look at each other for a while. Tom’s coming down now from the rush of fighting, warm and euphoric, realising something base in his body enjoyed this duel more than any other he fought before. As inelegant and orthodox as Evans was, he fought like someone who had the experience of real stakes, real battles, outside the cushioned play-pretend of a classroom.

“Help me clean up this mess,” Evans says, in lieu of answering his question.

They put the room right with waves of their wands: lifting upturned desks, gathering scattered parchments, throwing away the remains of Tom’s arrows.

Last it’s the cut on his shirt. Tom watches as Evans fixes it.

“You’re bleeding,” the omega points out. “You should go see… you should go to the hospital wing.”

“Answer my question.”

“I will answer it.” Comes Evans’ soft reply. “Monday. After classes. I’m giving you detention.”

Tom laughs. Evans doesn’t join in and he realises he’s serious.

“What do you mean _detention_?”

“Never got detention before then, Tom?” _Now_ Evans seems amused, his face glows with a brightness that is not entirely malicious, as if he’s carrying some fondness for his wayward pupil. Maybe he’s not right in the head if he’s laughing about it. A pat on the head for the murderer, is that his game? “No, I guess not. You’re a good boy when everyone is looking. I’ll answer your questions, one at a time, if you behave.”

He’s getting ready to leave now. But before he crosses the threshold he stops, looks again at Tom.

“Don’t try to kill me over the weekend. You’ll regret it.” He lingers one moment, as if expecting a reply. Tom gives him none. “See you on Monday.”

Evans leaves and Tom is alone.

Tom sits in one of the empty chairs. The room darker now, as if the night was waiting for Evans’ cue. He looks at his hand and holds his wrist to stop it from shaking. If not from anger, then what? But it’s laughter that climbs his throat, not a howl of offense. He’s angry, but the anger is cradled by some other emotion pulled from the vault of his childhood like a word he scarcely speaks, a mathematical equation he has no use for in the real life.

_Harry._

He thinks he says it aloud, for no reason at all.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tom is such a dumbass I love messing with him.


End file.
